


Offset

by harcourt



Series: Catchverse [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bondage, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Rope Bondage, longfic_bingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2015-10-16
Packaged: 2018-04-26 15:09:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5009434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harcourt/pseuds/harcourt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1658057">catch fumble catch</a>.</p><p>Steve overthinks the freakout, and if there's activities Clint's against doing, let alone <i>over</i> doing, it's ones that put Steve into a funk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Offset

They wake up late, if Clint counts by Steve-time, but it's still early enough that Clint spends the morning feeling pleasantly drowsy. Sleepy and lazy as he kicks around in a pair of Steve's PJ pants and a t-shirt, drinking Steve's coffee and eating his snack food and basically forcing Steve to lounge through the force of his mere unproductive presence. A couple of times, he catches Steve looking at him with a weird frown and wonders if he's getting on Steve's nerves yet, and grins his best disarming grin.

Between the two of them they have the morning paper and a handful of magazines strewn over the kitchen table, Clint idly flipping through old National Geographics, scanning pictures of bison and bird migration while Steve pretends to catch up on the news for the third time, sorting through sections of the paper like he might find a new, unread page.

"I could go," Clint offers, finally, when Steve starts to look genuinely antsy. 

Steve wipes both palms on his thighs in a strangely nervous gesture. Smiles. "You don't have to," he says. It's twitchy, for Steve.

"Don't let me guilt you into anything," Clint says, just in case, and sees Steve frown. Brief, and then gone, fast as a cover-up. "You okay?"

Steve frowns again. Straightens. Says, "I’m fine," in a slightly surprised tone, then asks, "Are _you_ okay?" and even if turn-around's fair play, it's not like Clint hasn't answered that question more than a couple times already.

He's also still wearing the cuffs. It's nice that Steve hadn't tried to remove them once he'd thought Clint was really settled down, and it's nice to have them now, when there's nothing to show for yesterday's activities but the slightest bit of soreness. Even if they're kind of incongruous at the moment, with the coffee pot and a last piece of toast still out on the table.

"I could take them off," Clint offers, when he realizes that they're what Steve's been frowning at. One of the things Steve's been frowning at. "If you want."

Steve smiles a little. "You don't have to," he says again. Clint flips his magazine shut. 

"I'm sorry about the closet thing," he says. "It was weird."

"It wasn't a--"

"And now you're weirded out." Steve looks a little offended at that. There's a reason Clint hates this talking part of things, and a reason he hates being the _instigator_ of the talking. "I don't think you're looking to trade me in for a less damaged model. I didn't mean it that way." 

Steve takes a breath. Lets it out. Says, "No. I know you didn't." His tone is careful. Clint leans back and hooks an arm over his chair's backrest.

"I meant; I'm fine, Steve."

It takes a second too long for Steve to say, "I know."

"So if you want to throw me out and go jogging," Clint grins, "Or go punching things."

"I don't." Steve says it quickly. A bit of annoyed snap in it. Sometimes, it's fun to needle Steve until he gets that stubborn, fed-up tone, but right now it just makes him sound oddly young and defensive. Makes Clint feel like a jerk who's picking on him.

"I meant, you don't have to hang out with me. I'm okay."

Steve blinks at him. Ducks his head to pretend to be looking at something in the paper he's read twice already. Clint rolls his eyes. Says, "Steve," until Steve looks back up at him and heaves a long breath.

"I know you're fine," Steve says, "and if _you_ want to go shoot things, you can. You don't have to stay."

"What? I don't want to go shoot things. I wasn't hinting that _I_ want to go anywhere and _do stuff_." He's perfectly happy to laze about wearing Steve's clothes and being a general disgrace. Even if Steve hadn't taken him up on his _clip me to the headboard_ offer. Maybe that should have been Clint's first clue that something was off kilter, that Steve's _no_ had been so seriously delivered, but he'd thought Steve was just being careful with him. "Would it help if I took the cuffs off?" 

He feels a bit guilty now, if they're part of what's upsetting Steve. They're just comfortable, and well made. Which, Clint has to admit, is personal code for _fancy_ and _look so great on me_. Neither of which are worth making Steve unhappy over.

Steve doesn't say anything until he has the first one unbuckled and halfway off, and then he says, "Wait," and, when Clint does, smiles a little and says, "Come here."

Clint does, getting up and coming around the table to lean against Steve. He has half an impulse to go to his knees, but doesn't. Knows Steve reads it in his face when he looks up from the wrist and half-buckled cuff Clint offers. Clint grins. Shrugs a shoulder. Then uses his free hand to ruffle Steve's hair and ruin his tidy good-boy part.

Steve snorts. He's fixing the buckle instead of undoing it the rest of the way, fingers careful. Clint leans over to kiss the top of his head, then press his cheek against it. Murmurs, "Thanks," even though he's not really sure for what. Possibly just because he's developing a bit of a habit, in things related to cuffs and maybe Steve's bare hands. 

Steve lets his wrist go, and slides an arm around him. Heaves a sigh that's way too heavy for the way they've spent the morning. 

"Hey," Clint says, and fumbles a bit for what to say next. He's not, it's turning out, a calm center of reassurance the way Steve had been for him, and he could try to channel Steve, but doing that _at_ Steve might get kind of weird. "It wasn't anything you did. It was a fluke, okay? If I was pissed at you, you'd probably know by now." Normally, Steve would laugh at the admission of Clint being a bit of a hot head, but this time the joke goes by, flat and a little hollow. 

Steve sighs again. His hand moves on Clint’s back, stroking carefully. For a guy who insists on _Clint_ talking, he's a pretty tough nut to crack. 

"You're not supposed to--" Steve starts, after a while, then stops again. His hand splays flat against Clint's back, not really restraining, but steadying. Like Steve thinks he might take that the wrong way and doesn't want him to bolt. 

Clint doesn't prompt him. Just carefully leans into Steve's hand, telegraphing _calm and relaxed_ until Steve sets his other hand on Clint's hip. Frowns at his t-shirt, focusing somewhere in the vicinity of Clint's solar plexus. "Be scared," he finishes belatedly. 

"That's kinda part of the fun," Clint tells him. "Like roller coasters."

"Ugh." Steve says it automatically, and Clint digs his fingers a little harder into Steve's scalp, back to ruffling through his hair, making scratching motions.

"Roller coasters don't suck, Steve. You just won't give them a chance."

"You've never been on a roller coaster with me," Steve points out. Clint doesn't bother to make the obvious response. He can feel Steve relaxing the longer Clint stands there, and--not _stays submissive_ , exactly, but _lets Steve be in control_ , which isn't quite the same thing. The second has a lot more to do with letting Steve take his time, and knowing when to back off. 

Which Clint does, after a minute, moving his now free hand to rest his arm over Steve's shoulder. Draping it there and staying still until Steve looks up.

"It wasn't," he says, picking up the conversation at some earlier point. "That's not part of it. For me." He has a knot in his brow. An unsettled look on his face. 

"Huh," Clint says, because he really hadn't thought about the nuance of things beyond _on board_ or _hell no_. 

"It's _not_ ," Steve insists. Then says, "Not like--" he trails off. Takes his hand from Clint's hip long enough to make a vague gesture.

"Yeah, okay," Clint says. "Okay."

Steve's hand moves on his back again. A little too thumpy. 

"Sorry," Clint says, leaning into him.

"You didn't do anything."

"Mm." Steve's hand slides down, to rest in the small of his back, light, not holding him in place any more. "You bought stuff," Clint points out, drawing back enough to look down at Steve and try to read his face.

"Yeah." There's a bit of a laugh in Steve's voice, now. Finally. 

"So you're not _not_ liking this, right?"

"You'd know if I wasn't liking this," Steve says.

"Because if you weren't, you wouldn't have a bag of secret stuff still sitting in your room."

This time Steve's sigh is amused. "You have a one track mind, Hawkeye, you know that?" 

"I'm _focused_." 

"Oh. Right. That's a better spin." Steve's sense of humor coming back is a good sign, and when Clint steps back, Steve lets his restraining hand fall away, looking fond and a little entertained, the way he does when Clint gives him lip. 

"Come on. You've read that paper like six times now. I'm not saying _do_ anything. Just show me. Are you embarrassed? Is it stuff that's really nuts?" Clint stops to consider, then adds, more carefully, "Is that what why you feel bad now? Because if you have some kind of _extra_ risky behavior you wanted to try, you know I'm game."

"It's not really," Steve tells him, "like that," but gets up once he realizes that Clint's more than prepared to wait him out, and lets himself be steered back to the bedroom and to sit on the bed. Clint snags the bag from its place against the wall and tosses it, a careful throw in case there's anything fragile inside, but it lands softly, with a _fwump_ and no rattle.

"I don't know if it's your thing," Steve hedges. "I was just thinking."

"Okay."

"And if it's too much--"

"I'm _fine_."

Steve hesitates a bit longer, bag in his lap, while Clint climbs onto the end of the bed and makes himself comfortable. "We don't have to try it."

"Now I _really_ want to know what you've got in there." Clint grins. Hopes it looks reassuring. Steve has a wary look that doesn't suit him at all, and Clint's pretty sure it's not because he's shy or afraid of Clint's reaction, considering some of the things they've done, all of which Clint had been into or that had been his idea to start with. 

"But not if you're not ready," he adds, when Steve stays facing away, frowning down at the bag.

"What happened yesterday," Steve starts, all of a sudden. "I didn't mean to cross a line."

"You didn't. And I'm not afraid of you, and you're not terrorizing me, or whatever you're thinking."

"I know. I just want you to know that's not what I'm in this for."

"Maybe a bit."

"Not like yesterday."

Clint huffs. Scrubs a hand through his hair. "You're killing me, Steve. What the hell have you got in that bag?"

Steve turns, folding a leg so he can sit sideways and face Clint, the bag between them. "It's nothing crazy. Just different." Than Clint's usual ideas, he means. Steve's self-conscious frown would make Clint laugh, if Steve didn't also still look solemn and worried. Clint bolting had clearly done a number on him.

Steve waits for a bit longer. Watching Clint like he's looking for some sign of how he might react, then opens the bag and pulls out a book. Square and not too thick. At a glance, Clint guesses glossy pages. 

Steve tosses it to the bed between them, and before Clint can flip it open, reaches back into the bag and pulls out a pile of soft, dark cord. Clint grins.

"That's it?"

"I know it's not that out there." Steve sounds a little defensive. "But I don't know if you--It's very immobile."

"Immobile, huh?" Clint echoes, pulling the book closer and opening it to a random page, scanning the photos. "I don't know if we can manage this lighting, though." He flips through a few more pages. Looks up. Says, "You bought cuffs," and, "I'm starting to see how your plan was supposed to come together."

"It could take a bit longer to get you loose."

"It'll take a while to tie me up, too. I'm guessing that's the point?"

Steve smiles. Pulls the book back. Shrugs. His eyes are tracing over the page, following the pattern of crisscrossing ropes, thoughtful. "You'd look good," he says, "Was the point. Also it looked like it might be fun to figure some of these out."

"So, seduced by artsy photography," Clint says, "Or the fun of crafting?" 

"It could be boring," Steve warns, "I practiced a little, but don't expect it to go that smoothly."

Steve working carefully over him, frowning over his work and not even paying much attention to Clint sounds pretty great, smooth or not. Sounds like a good, lazy rest of the day. He can tell Steve's thinking it too, because he looks distracted as he winds the pile of cord into tidy bundles, meticulously tucking ends in before laying them back down on top of the blankets.

"That's okay," Clint says, not touching the cord. The way Steve's setting them down makes it seem wrong to. Like messing with Tony's tools, or Steve's art junk. "We'll call it a test run."

"We can stop any time you want."

"Back at you. Now, how dressed do you want me?"

Steve's gaze drops back to the book, then travels over Clint before he shrugs. "As much as you want." Then, at Clint's frown, "Lose the shirt."

Clint tugs it off and drops it over the side of the bed. "Gone. Now what? Pants?"

"Now come here."

They're close enough to each other that all Clint has to do is unfold his legs and lean forward to kiss Steve, shuffling over on his knees and straightening up to claim the higher ground. He could easily swing a knee over Steve's legs and settle into his lap, and it's tempting, but before he can do it, Steve's tipping him off balance and pushing him down, onto his side on the bed. Not pinning him like he usually would, but just waiting to see if Clint struggles.

He doesn't. Even if it's tempting, it's not a game Steve's in the mood for. Not when his fancy new book might get rumpled. Clint shifts onto his back, and gives Steve a questioning look, half holding his hands up, not sure what to do with them. "You need a minute to look something up?"

"Shh."

"Or do you just want me to be your macramé practice dummy? Because I can do that." 

"No, I want you to shut up," Steve says. "While I figure out what to do with you." 

While he figures out how to do what he's already decided on, he means. He's studying the pictures with a small frown and serious eyes, reverse engineering, glancing at Clint every so often as he mentally _re_ -engineers. "How much shutting up are we talking here?" Clint asks, because he's not a fan of the gag, but he is kind of a fan of Steve threatening him with it. For some reason.

"A lot, probably." Steve sounds distracted, but he smiles a little. A knowing smirk that means he's on to Clint. As rebuffs go, it's pretty gentle, but Clint huffs anyway and drops his hands back to the mattress, at his sides, and, when that ends up feeling awkward, over his head. Going for relaxed sprawl.

And maybe a little bit for sexy chest display, even though Steve's got him more than beat in that department. In most departments. Outside of shameless sex requests, anyway, even if Steve's catching up with him on that one too. 

This time, when he drags Clint's pants off, it's gentle. Steve hooks his fingers under Clint's waistband, and slowly gathers the fabric up, tugging the material down his thighs and over his knees, then lifts Clint's feet to free them, one at a time. It's a little weird. 

Steve catches his nose wrinkle and pauses, looking down at him with a tentative smile. Adorably uncertain, as he sets Clint's foot down, sole flat on the bed so that his knee is bent. It's hardly the most vulnerable position Clint's even been in, but going slow is giving him a lot of time to focus on every bit of it. It's not as great as fast, terrifying and breathless, but it's pretty good. 

"I can hurt you at the end," Steve offers, somehow reading the thought. "If you want."

"God. When you say it like that, I sound totally weird." 

"Mm-hm."

Clint picks his head up, then lets it drop back when it turns out Steve's not looking. Busy straightening one of the cords back out, running the material through his hand like he's measuring the length against some mental image. "What do you mean _mm-hm_?" Clint demands at the ceiling.

"Don't move."

"Don't dodge the question."

Steve ignores it instead, settling onto the end of the bed next to Clint, and carefully running a hand over his ribs and side, working his way down like he's examining something. It's not till Steve's fingers come to a stop at his waist that Clint remembers the bruise he'd picked up bashing his hip into something yesterday. He's tempted to tell Steve that he's fine again, but it's probably better to let him work that out for himself. 

"If you want to stop," Steve starts. 

Clint huffs. 

"But otherwise--"

It's a _shut up_ lecture. Clint lifts a hand and drops it. Long-suffering and exasperated enough that Steve laughs. "Right," he says, but he's sliding the cord around Clint's thigh, adjusting it fussily and Clint would comment, but if Steve wants shutting up, Clint can do shutting up. For a bit, anyway.

At least for as long as it takes Steve to finish wrapping the cord into a wide, dark stripe around his thigh, then unwind it and do it again, this time creating a little loop as he goes. It feels well tied, the pressure even when Steve gives it an experimental tug. "Tell me if you stop feeling your leg," Steve tells him, teasing--there's no way it's tight enough for that--and moves to repeat the process on the other side. Clint's not sure what he's up to, but he's frowning seriously, trying to get the loop right and absently blinking sun out of his eyes. Steve's lashes are pale, but they look really long with the light catching them, and underneath, his eyes look really blue.

Steve finishes. Tests his work and sits back. Clint wishes his shirt was off. 

"Give me a hand."

He sounds firm enough that Clint doesn't ask with? to bug him, but just reaches obediently, leaving the other arm where it is while Steve carefully adjusts the cuff, turning it on Clint's wrist until the D-ring is on the inside. 

The clip goes on with a soft click, then fastens more silently to the little loop Steve had made with the cord, trapping Clint's arm at his side. He can feel the cord under his fingers, smooth and soft, nothing digging in or tightening when he pulls. Steve lets him experiment a little, then asks, "That okay?" 

Clint nods.

"Other hand, then."

\-----

Steve's working carefully. One hand on Clint and the other holding his book flat while he works something out. Every so often he mouths a word or two, _under_ or _around_ or _this goes that way_ , and then his tongue appears, just a little, wetting his lip while his brow furrows. Clint's up on his knees now, and he could probably peer over Steve's arm to get a look at what he's planning, but it's way more interesting to watch the way his eyes flicker as he glances across the page and back until he says, "Okay," in a thoughtful, distracted voice.

He could be tying up one of the dummies from Tony's crash lab, almost, except that his hand lifts occasionally to make soothing motions against Clint's knee or side, where it mostly tickles and makes Clint twitch. It's odd to feel almost incidental, like he barely needs to be here, but to have Steve so focused at the same time. It's strangely soothing, and Clint sighs a little when Steve finally moves on to drape a length of cord over the back of his neck.

The brush of it against his throat is a little disconcerting, and Clint swallows a few times, against the vulnerable sense of it, and against the feeling of Steve's fingers a second later, tucking more cord around his neck and then around the loops, creating a collar section and preventing constriction, testing to make sure Clint won't get accidentally strangled before he continues, weaving down around his chest. There's hardly any pressure from the cords, and Steve's careful not to pull, but they shift a little with Clint's breath, brushing against his collarbone and back. Steve's left enough space that nothing is touching his throat, but Clint breathes carefully anyway. Drawing and releasing his breath in a measured, steady rhythm until Steve makes a soothing sound and rubs a hand, flat-palmed against the back of Clint's shoulder.

"I'm alright," Clint murmurs, and blinks. He's not sure when his eyes had slid shut. "I think I like it. You can have more ideas, if you want. You can have all the ideas from now on."

"Nice try."

"And if I have ideas," Clint goes on, "You can say no and then we do your ideas instead." His voice is lower than he means. A bit distant. He's usually more keyed up by the time he gets to bullshit offers of anything Steve wants, all day, all night, anything at all, but this is just warm and calm and Steve laughs a little and kisses his shoulder, then very gently rubs his fingers against the back of Clint's head, ruffling his hair. Petting and touching him way more carefully than Clint's ever needed. He tries to tell Steve that, but it comes out as a low, garbled mumble that makes Steve laugh again.

"Okay," he says, "I'll have the ideas, if you go along with them. Quietly." It's like Steve thinks he can't do it. 

"Haha," Clint manages, but Steve's working cords together down the length of his back, fingers brushing Clint's skin, arms reaching around him and Steve's chin is at his ear, peering over Clint's shoulder even though Clint doubts he needs to see to do whatever it is he's doing. He seems pretty confident, moving smoothly and without fumbling. 

Clint lets his head thump against Steve's shoulder. His shirt smells nice. Like warm drier and softener even though Steve's been wearing it a while. Steve smells like coffee, a little. His jaw's a bit rough under Clint's lips. The stubble scratchy and a bit sharp when Clint licks him.

" _Shh_ ," Steve hisses. Sharp. A reprimand instead of comfort. Clint responds by applying a little tooth.

"I can still get that gag."

Clint kisses the spot. Hums. Says, "God, I love you," because he's a freak. At least Steve has the decency to chuckle rather than take him seriously right now.

"Why do you like that?" Steve asks, doing something to the end of the cord, and Clint remembers that, officially, they're not doing anything here but entertaining Steve's creative impulses. Still, he's got Steve's arms around him, and Steve's really great shoulder under his cheek, and he's butt naked except for the cuffs and cords and it's hardly his fault that that's a little misleading. "What would you do if I actually went and got it?"

"Complain." Fight. Maybe cry. Steve's _seen him_ cry over the gag, and try to gasp air around it, shaking his head to try and dislodge it. The gag is fucking awful, but the idea of it is weirdly hot. There's probably no way that Steve doesn't notice him getting hard, thinking about how much he fucking hates it. 

And a bit about how much he loves when Steve grabs him by the hair and pins him with a knee against his back, until he gives in and lets the thing be shoved into his mouth.

It's tough to explain. Clint doesn't try, and Steve doesn't push it, pressing a kiss to Clint's face before sitting back and looking him over. Definitely noticing his hard-on now, if he hadn't before. Clint can see the comments just stacking up in his entertained little smile, and feels his ears heat, a little. He almost has the urge to cover himself, but his hands are still pinned down by his thighs. Somehow, the easy position feels more exposed than if his hands had been tied behind him. There's no fight to hide behind, for one. Just Steve touching his face, urging eye contact. 

Clint grins. As covers go, it's pretty transparent, but Steve just kisses him again, on the mouth this time, and properly, before he gets his hands on Clint's butt and uses the grip to pull him up on his knees.

"Can you balance like this?" Steve asks, and _really_. Clint gives him a look, but wobbles when Steve takes a foot. 

"Not if you're doing--What _are_ you doing?"

"Shh." This time it is a shush, but it's a still more a _let me work_ than an _it's okay_. Steve in crafts project mode is turning out to be a little bit like Tony in fixing-things mode. A little impatient, a little distracted, and bossy. The association makes Clint want to laugh, a little, but then Steve's adjusting him on the bed, effortlessly dragging him closer to the footboard so he can push him down till his chest is resting against it.

Normally, Clint would protest just for the hell of it, and play up the discomfort of the wooden edge digging into him, but he's not sure Steve would appreciate even a for-dramatics _ow_ , just now. Instead, Clint repeats, "What are you doing?" and makes a real effort to not think about how his ass is on display like this. If Steve was hitting him or fucking him, it would be different, but Steve's just lifting one of Clint's feet, cupping it in his hand for long seconds before something ticklish brushes over his sole.

Steve, Clint thinks, is a little disorganized. Whatever he's doing, he could have done it before, when he'd had Clint on his back. Now, it's a bit awkward, and even with the support of the footboard, Clint's balance wavers when Steve pulls his foot too far. 

"Sorry." Steve's got him by the hip, steadying him for a second, before going back to work wrapping cord around Clint's foot and ankle in a pattern that feels a lot like having the joint braced, but with pauses that's either Steve checking himself or making pretty patterns. He finishes with a knot, a solid pressure in the arch of Clint's foot, then repeats on the other side, a little faster. Movements a little more sure. Still completely indifferent to how he's got Clint positioned. 

Clint swallows. Feels his chest press against the footboard as he does, then takes a deep slow breath to see how that feels different, and then another, holding it longer this time to drag out the distraction of the hard edge biting into muscle and bone. A sharp, painful line, until Steve finishes and pulls him back so his ass is resting on his heels again. 

"Okay?"

Clint wiggles his toes. Pulls at the bindings. With Steve's knots nestled against the bottom of his feet, there's no way he's walking out of here without undoing them first. Without Steve freeing his hands to do it. Clint's pretty sure he could pick his way through the cords fastening his cuffs to his thighs, if he wanted to, but it would take him a while. 

Steve waits while he fidgets, hooking his finger through a loop hanging off Clint's left foot and pulling, with gentle but steady pressure. Testing his work for give and discomfort while he waits for an answer.

It takes Clint a second to catch on, and nod a go-ahead, saying "Fine," for good measure even as Steve picks up the loose tail he'd left dangling down Clint's back, then pauses again and takes some time to touch Clint's head and face. Trace his jawline. He's a bit scruffier than Steve, from being generally lazier than him and having shaved less recently. The stubble rasps a bit against Steve's fingertips.

"You look good," Steve tells him.

 _Steve_ would look good if he'd take something off, Clint thinks, but doesn't say, because the proprietary way Steve's touching him is intense in a low-burn, pleasant way that Clint doesn't want to spoil. He straightens up at Steve's urging, following the pressure of a hand on his chest, and bending an elbow when Steve tugs at it, pulling Clint's arm so he can thread the cord around it, pulling Clint's bent arm back and in, before fixing the cord to the loop on Clint's foot, holding him on his knees. 

There's not much give when he's done. Clint pulls--at his wrists, tries to straighten up from his knees--but everything holds firm and the way Steve had anchored the cord around Clint's chest means that he doesn't even choke himself when he struggles.

Any other time, Clint would expect Steve to tip him over about now and fuck him, but Steve seems more interested in admiring his work. Frowning and making minute adjustments before he steps away from the bed entirely and just stands there. Clint turns his head to watch Steve watch him, then, when nothing happens, lets his gaze go back to the sheets in front of him and relaxes. Lets Steve's rope work take his weight, holding him in place. He can feel the tension in the cords around his chest, and over his shoulders. Around his arms and pulling at his feet. Keeping his legs folded and his body upright. Clint curls his toes and stretches them again, then repeats the move with his fingers, straightening them then curling them back into fists. Not restless, but just to feel the ways he _can't_ move.

"Alright," he says, voice unexpectedly rough, "Gold star on the braiding and weaving. Tomorrow you can try on Nat's hair."

"How do you feel?" Steve asks, ignoring the commentary. Still hanging back. Clint fidgets a little more. 

"Like you should be touching me. And taking your shirt off." Or both at the same time, if he can figure out a way to do that. "Or like you should come here so I can try to do it with my teeth."

That probably wouldn't work too well either, but the offer is enough to bring Steve close again and to get him to put his hands back on Clint, tracing the dark cords, every place they border on skin, then leaves them to smooth his palm over Clint's stomach, his back. Clint lets his breath out and closes his eyes. 

Then opens one to ask, "You're gonna let me suck you off, right?"

"I was kind of thinking the other way around."

"You're going to _make me_ suck you off."

It gets a chuckle out of Steve. Low and near Clint's ear, and his hand turns Clint's head in to a kiss. "The _other_ other way," he says, when he pulls back, and drags Clint across the bed, easily, like it's nothing. Just with one arm around him, bound arms and everything. Just far enough to make space, so Steve can flop onto his belly in front of him if he bends his knees to avoid bumping his shins on the footboard.

"Oh shit," Clint gasps, when Steve wraps a hand around him, because _oh shit_. 

Steve makes a little acknowledging sound as he takes Clint into his mouth, then grunts when he _does_ bang a leg on the footboard. He looks great sprawled in front of Clint, one hand on Clint's wrist, where it's still cuffed to his leg, and the other hooked loosely around him, even though it's not like Clint's going anywhere. At least the way his hands are fastened means he can get a bit a leverage to rock his hips and try to thrust into Steve's mouth.

"I--fuck-- _Steve_."

Steve chuckles again, around Clint's cock as he pulls off and slides back down. Clint means to say something about trying to take care of Steve, and Steve fucking it up, but the only sounds he's managing to make are moans and harsh pants and a little yell when Steve presses his tongue against the head of Clint's cock.

Steve's hand tightens on his wrist when he jumps, hard enough to hurt. Hard enough that Clint pulls and comes up against both the restraint and Steve's grip, struggling until Steve's fingers dig in a little more, even while his other hand makes soothing motions, stroking a little in the small of Clint's back.

"Uh," Clint manages. And, "Oh god."

He's getting close, and Steve's mouth is hot and perfect, and then he pulls off. 

" _Fuck_. What the fuck, Steve?"

Steve doesn't answer, busy kissing his way up Clint's cock from base to tip. Clint struggles, then stills, then struggles again, then settles for hunching as much as the cords will let him and making desperate noises until Steve takes pity and catches the head of Clint's cock in his mouth. If Clint could get his brain online enough to do anything other than blink at the back of Steve's head and wish real hard for Steve to start moving, he'd beg.

Or maybe threaten. Threaten's an option.

Either Steve senses his desperation or the pathetic sounds Clint's making are even more pathetic than he thinks, because Steve gets back to business, taking Clint as deep as he can, and picking up the pace.

Clint shuts his eyes. Grabs at the sheets under his hands, and hangs on, and comes into Steve's mouth, hard enough that he's sure Steve's knotwork is the only thing that keeps him upright. For a second the restraint is too much, and Clint thrashes, trying to fight his way free, then settles to panting and making stupid sounds in his throat.

"I'm fine," he rasps, as soon as he has the breath to and before Steve can cut him loose or ask if he needs to be cut loose. His voice is rough. "Just need a second."

Steve hums. Holding Clint in his mouth for a few seconds longer before releasing so he can kiss Clint low on his belly. It tickles. Clint's muscles jump. "If it's not enough," Steve offers, low and against his skin, making Clint twitch some more and wrinkle his nose. "I can throw you off something."

"Yeah," Clint says, unthinking and mostly to be agreeable. "Sure." 

He gets a dubious look in response, Steve peering up in a way that makes Clint grin, even though he's sure it's still coming across a little goofy. "But I can stay here, too," Clint adds, "Whatever you want."

Steve's grip on his wrist is a little looser now. Just a light hold as his other hand ghosts over Clint's back and he kisses his way up Clint's stomach. If there's something he wants, he's not in any hurry about it. Not that Clint minds. 

He minds, a little, that Steve's dressed and doesn't even look too ruffled. Clint's sure _he's_ a mess, with the way Steve's manhandled him. And maybe a little bit because he hadn't started the morning off that put together in the first place. 

Steve looks pretty pleased about his handiwork, though. Which is good. He likes Steve happy. Steve happy is a ton better than Steve brooding and self-doubting and kicking himself. 

"I wanna touch you," Clint says. "Let me go so I can touch you."

It takes Steve less time than Clint expects. A quick couple jerks and the cords wrapping his arms loosen, then pull free from his feet and while Clint's wiggling his way out of that, Steve unclips his wrists. "Stay still. Let me."

He's close enough that Clint can drop his head back to Steve's shoulder, like he had while Steve was tying him up, but with a gradual return to freedom, and it feels odd to be losing the restraint. To have nothing to stop him from melting into Steve, and once he's there, leaning against him, staying still seems like a good idea. Steve reversing his work, unlooping cords and releasing pressure, feels surprisingly overwhelming. Like Clint might float off if Steve's arms weren't around him. "You're great," Clint murmurs into his shoulder. "You're fine."

Steve stops what he's doing to rub the back of Clint's neck, for just a second. "Thanks."

"This was good. You're good," Clint keeps going, in case Steve twigs on to his too-light flying-away feeling and gets weird again. "It's okay."

There's a puff of air by his ear as Steve laughs, but he keeps unhooping cord from around Clint's neck, lifting each section carefully over his head and gathering the lengths neatly folded into one hand. "Tell me when I can move," Clint tells him, "So I can kiss you," then adds, "I'll be gentle."

"Oh, in that case," Steve says. "Go ahead."

"You should have kissed me this morning. When I told you to."

"Sorry." 

"Now it's too late to tie me to the bed." He's still kind of half-tied, with some of the loose ends hanging. If things get enthusiastic he's likely to get tangled, and tie himself back up by default. Maybe tie Steve up by default, too. 

"You're going to strangle yourself," Steve says, thinking the same thing, but lets Clint get up in his space and lean in until he can tip Steve over. Or at least, lean in until Steve realizes that's what Clint's going for and lets himself be tipped.

"Then I'll die happy." Or as happy as asphyxiation would allow, anyway, but Clint fumbles the last couple of loops over his head and presses them into Steve's hand in a big messy snarl, tells him, "Here," then leans over to kiss him, straddling Steve's hips. Steve could probably still escape, if he wanted to. He also doesn't seem to realize just who's holding who down now, catching Clint's head in both hands and sliding his fingers into Clint's hair, like he thinks he's still the one doing the restraining here.

"You're okay, right?" Clint asks, "You're done being weird? Because I have a National Geographic and a piece of toast to get back to." Steve laughs. His expression is soft. Clint's not really sure what to do with that, except to add, "Unless you have other ideas. You have three seconds." 

"I'm alright," Steve says, in answer to all of it and without letting Clint go. "But stay here. I'll make you new toast later, if you want."

"Stop bribing me, Steve."

Steve's fingers ruffle through his hair a bit longer. 

"And you don't have to throw me off anything," Clint adds, "Ever, if you don't want."

"That's a relief." 

He's kidding. Clint grins and moves a hand to pat his hair back, then pulls free so he can flop down on Steve, then rolls off to lie next to him, while Steve's fingers tickle up his back, then back down, in lazy motions. "Or, you know. Maybe later," Clint says.

"Maybe later," Steve agrees, but doesn't move. Clint throws a leg over both of his to keep him there.


End file.
